


When We Rise

by VivereLibri



Category: Red Rising Trilogy - Pierce Brown
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Canon, what do we call little Pax
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-07 11:19:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8798884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivereLibri/pseuds/VivereLibri
Summary: Days, moments, seconds. Pivotal moments and the ones that will never be recorded in the history books. 
 
For a thirty-day drabble challenge (an old one on Tumblr). One word, one drabble/one-shot each day. Not in chronological order, but all canon.





	1. Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to a) get some fic into this fandom and b) get myself writing every day, now that I have the time. Since it is the holidays, updates may be choppy (you may get three works the days after Christmas, maybe a dump before New Year's, you get the picture).
> 
> Come find me on tumblr @thehaemanthus

_Beginning_

They had not left Earth yet, and Darrow wasn’t keen to. After the turmoil of the past few years, he wanted rest. Never before had Darrow realized just how much stress he had, how much weight was hanging over him and could come crashing down at any moment.

The little house  on the coast was insulated from that turmoil, even though the storm still raged outside. Mustang would have to work hard to bring back order, and then would come the reforms. Darrow would be by her side, of course, but he was never the best at politics. That was all Mustang.

For now, however, she got to rest. They had spent all day on the bed, tiny Pax in between them, just talking. Serious subjects, light ones, future plans for Pax, painful memories. If Darrow ever doubted his future with his family, that doubt was now gone.

Mustang lay on her side, golden hair spread out like a halo. Her face was peaceful, pink lips slightly parted as she dozed. She had one hand flung out to lay protectively over Pax, who slept with his hands fisted next to his ears. Darrow had himself propped up, watching.

The sun was just rising on Earth. Grey fog kept them in an isolated cacoon. It was as eerie as it was calming. 

Pax’s face scrunched up at he woke, starting to cry in fits and starts like babies do. Darrow sat up, scooping the infant into his arms before he could get really mad. “Hey, let’s not wake Mama yet, huh?” He stood, padding out of the room softly into the kitchen. There weren’t really any servants here, just one Brown- no. Not a Brown nursemaid, a human. Just a regular nursemaid for Pax. If they were to start to do away with Color, Darrow had to start thinking differently.

It would be a challenge, but they could do it. If it meant that Pax grew up never caring about the divisions of Color, they would do it. But that was a long way away. Right now, all Pax wanted was some breakfast.

Mustang wasn’t able to produce breastmilk anymore. Darrow couldn’t tell how disappointed she had been about not getting to nurse Pax, but she had mentioned talking to some Yellows— _doctors_ —about starting up again, if it was possible. For now, Pax got powdered formulas. 

When Darrow had fixed a bottle with minor difficulty, he took Pax out on the porch to watch the sun rise and burn away the mist. Earth was beautiful. It felt ancient, obsolete almost. But, in its antiquity, it was seemed exempt from politics of Society. The Solar System would continue to bicker; Earth would stand as it had for eons.

Darrow knew that wasn’t true, of course. Earth was not some shining beacon; it was old, not in a good way. But that’s how Society had seen it. Maybe, in this new beginning, Earth could have a new beginning as well.

Pax snuffled around his bottle, moving around a bit and drawing Darrow’s attention back. Yes, this was a new beginning for all of them. If they could breathe new life into this world, they could breathe some life into this System too.


	2. Accusation

_Accusation_

 

“So, are your studies really that engaging?”

“Extremely,” Darrow deadpanned. He didn’t glance up from his book on old Earth war tacticians, even as Mustang sat on the edge of his desk. “Do you mind? Your thigh is covering my notes.”

“Exactly.”

He finally looked up. Mustang was draped in finery and gold, ready for a night at the opera. Once again, he refused to go with her and Roque. Even if Lorn’s training wasn’t so taxing, the time commitment alone would wear at Darrow. Wake up, train, learn, train, study, work, study, sleep. It was a grueling cycle to get used to.

“I’d like to finish this by tomorrow,” Darrow said, turning back to his notes. “Have to work on my presentation for that conference.”

“You don’t need to keep giving excuses. I understand you don't want to come,” Mustang said, standing. “But, if you came with us once, you might find that you actually can have fun. Remember that Darrow? Fun?”

“Haha.” Darrow leaned back in his chair. Her tone may be joking, but Mustang was upset. The least he could do was give her his attention. They had been…weird. Weird for a while now, and he didn’t know what to do. There was something there. If it wasn’t for the fact that there _couldn’t_ be anything there, that it wasn’t allowed, Darrow might have pursued it. “I can have fun. And I like music.”

“Just not opera.”

Darrow shrugged. “Too long. Ballets, operas, going to the symphony. Just hours of sitting idle.”

Mustang smiled sadly. “Have you really gotten to the point where you can’t let yourself have a moment of idleness?”

This softer version of Mustang was one that Darrow had little experience with. For a second, she allowed genuine concern to show. Then the door opened, and the spell was broken.

Roque walked in, fiddling with cuff links. “Have you convinced him?”

“No, I was unsuccessful.” Mustang said. “Darrow doesn’t find the same enjoyment in the arts as we do.”

“I like music,” Darrow defended himself again. “I enjoy musicals. At least there’s a story there. And dancing.”

Roque nodded. “Then maybe for our next excursion, we go to a dance. What do you say, goodman? Think Tactus would join our group?”

“He’d join,” Darrow said. “I’m not sure how much fun he’d be though.”

“He might get enjoyment from ruining our evening.” Roque gave up on fiddling with the cuff links. “Mustang, I need to stop by my room before we go. I’ll meet you downstairs?”

She nodded, watching Roque leave the room again. Darrow turned back to his work, assuming Mustang would leave as well.

“I really do think you should come.” Her voice startled him.

Darrow sighed. “I wish I could…I just…”

“You are doing all this for my father, for my house,” she said. “But I still don’t understand why. I don’t understand why you made the choices you did. I just hoped it wouldn’t change you too much. I was foolish.”

“Mustang-“

“No,” she shook her head. “You made me into a foolish little girl who _hoped_. Tell me, Darrow, do you actually care about anything other than rising in the ranks?”

Darrow scowled. “Of course I do.” He was not power hungry.

“Really? Because that’s not what I’ve seen.” Mustang said. “I’ve been watching you Darrow, just like I watch everyone else. And there’s only one conclusion that I came to.” She didn’t give him a chance to respond, instead leaving the room in a flurry of gold skirts.

Darrow slumped in his chair, running a hand over his face. She was right, of course. He was not selfish, but he was power hungry. He needed to hold power in order to redistribute it, but he was just one part of a big plan.

A plan that he was not privy to. When was the last time the Sons contacted him? It had been too long. Idleness like this allowed him to dwell on the fact. If he stayed in this mindset to long, it would result in fear and anxiousness.

So he went back to his work. Work, work, work, don’t let the mind drift off. The only way he knew to keep going on this mission was to play a part, no matter what accusations came with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Day two!
> 
> Thanks for everyone who has read. This is admittedly not my best work, but these are great warm up exercises. Really forces me to focus on characterization (and do some plot research because gorydamn some things are just not clear at all).


	3. Restless

_Restless_

Sevro’s bunk in the torchShip was confining. Luxurious, but small. A lot warmer compared to Pluto, but. Confining. Yet it was where he chose to spend most of his time in the past few weeks.

He could mingle with the other Golds in various lounges, bars, theatres. Their ship was small, but it did have its comforts. However, Sevro couldn’t consider joining them. If he did, the secret on the tip of his tongue might come bubbling out.

He had kept it to himself for a while now. Did that mean he was going to keep the secret? Sevro couldn’t say. It kept bouncing around in his mind. Darrow was a Red. Darrow became Gold. Darrow _lied_.

Sevro had one more month until they reached Luna. So far he hadn’t reconsidered, but he hadn’t really made a decision about what to do once he got there.

Gorydamn. Darrow was a damn _Red._

How would everyone else react? Sevro knew the ones who would back off, look down in disgust right away. Then there were those who would just be shocked, not know what to think. No one would just accept it outright, especially not if Sevro had trouble with it.

Of course, it wasn’t just that Darrow was a Red. Used to be a Red. Whatever. It was what that meant. There’s only one reason a Red would be sent up to infiltrate Golds, and it didn’t bode well for Society. For all of his disadvantages, Sevro was still Gold and received the perks that came with it. Would he be willing to throw that away to bring down the ruling class?

The answer came surprisingly quickly. Yes.

It didn’t matter what Color Darrow was. He still did amazing things, with help. He obviously didn’t get into the Institute without considerable assistance. But still, once he was there. Gorydamn. Even back then, he was changing things, wasn’t he?

He gave Sevro a place, which was more than any Gold had ever done for him. Darrow is the reason he even has his Howlers. Sevro doesn’t want to feel like he owes Darrow a debt. He doesn’t. Darrow might have given him the opportunity to form the Howlers, but Sevro did that. He shaped the group of mismatched and odd delinquents, then paid Darrow back in full with some interest.

They were friends of course, so it didn’t matter in the end. Sevro would just…keep being Darrow’s friend. No one had to know of his two months of indecision. What matter was what the final verdict was.

Sevro was going to help take down Society, and he was going to have a _bloodydamn_ fine time of doing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on skipping a day so early into this project, but that's what happens when you fall sick, unfortunately. Thank you to all who have read. And to that one guy who reviewed! You rock! 
> 
> You should all review ;)


	4. Snowflake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known that I did not enjoy this prompt. 
> 
> Snowflake? Really? Ugh.

_Snowflake_

 

Occasionally, Darrow would think the snow was beautiful. This was not one of those times. The falling puffs of white, muted sounds, and eerie gray of the world had been fascinating for about an hour. Then, he felt the full affects of irritation.

Right now, the snow was interfering with his plans. His army could get through it, but it would have been easier if they didn’t have to trudge through frozen water. When Darrow had imagined his trials, what he would have to go through to get into the Institute and then out of it, he never imagined snow. Bloodydamn.

In the moments of silence, some of the old appreciation did trickle back. Darrow perched on a rock, covered in his stinking furs. Warm, but definitely an assault on the senses. The rest of the army was resting, waiting for his orders to move out again.

Darrow didn’t want to go until the snow stopped falling. For one, he thought it messed with his vision. Too much movement. He felt too vulnerable. But also…well, he was mesmerized. Snow was terrible, but snowflakes were beautiful.

Mustang had said something to him, about how each snowflake was unique. When they were all clumped up together like this, they weren’t distinguishable. The individual may be stunning, but lump him together with others who shine just as bright and they all become dull.

The intricacies of the snowflake are lost once it joins a drift. Large groups have a way of doing that. Even in the mines of Lykos, Darrow saw it. In the Institute, he had been using it. Mob mentality. Going with the flow. Once you stop being able to make yourself different, you just blend in.

Darrow hadn’t blended in well on Lykos, but that was because of his job and because of Eo. Of course, he didn’t blend in very well in the Institute either.

These Golds had seen snow before. They sometimes played in it, when things were a little more optimistic in their march. They knew childish games that before the wouldn’t have dared partake in. But now in the Institute, innocence was brought back. How odd.

“What are you thinking so hard about, Reaper?” Pax sat beside Darrow.

“The snow. Snowflakes, to be exact.”

“Hm, beautiful, are they not?”

Darrow shrugged. “Sure. But a nuisance. It may be interesting that they are all different, but they distort the vision and gather into large drifts.”

“Good for them,” Pax bellowed. “The snow grows its numbers, becomes stronger.”

Darrow chuckled. “Good for the snow, maybe, not for us.”

“Unless we can use the snow to our advantage,” Pax clapped Darrow on the shoulder as he stood. “We are ready to march out when you give the order, Reaper,”

“Thank you, Pax.” He watched as the other boy lumbered off, jovial even in these miserable conditions. He was right about the snow. Even if the qualities of the individual were lost when added to a group, the group became stronger. So, base qualities were amplified? But what good were simple traits, cold, wet, white, when trying to accomplish a task? 

Well, this cold wet white was impeding his army. But it was a balance, Darrow figured. Groups are strong, but directionless. Individuals have intricacies, but are powerless. You just have to mix the two.


	5. Haze

_Haze_

 

The initiation came about in an odd way. Sevro had never really thought about it seriously until it happened. The hazing was brutal, the trials disgusting. But Howlers were odd creatures, people who would do anything and everything to achieve a goal.

That’s what Sevro did. He is the original Howler, and although he may have also donned the mantel of Hades, he can’t escape that fact. The Howlers are his people, molded mostly by him.

If Sevro had to go through struggles, do disgusting things in order to survive and reach his goal, that’s what he would do. And if anyone else wanted to be a Howler, that’s what they would have to do too. It takes more than just wearing a wolf’s pelt. You have to be able to kill the wolf, wear the pelt, become part of the pack.

“Where did you even round up all these cockroaches?” Someone asked. “And the snakes?”

“We had to be creative,” Pebble said. “I want to give Darrow hell.

“The shithead,” Sevro said in agreement.

“But it’s also Victra and Holiday,” another Howler grunted as he hauled a crate filled with various bottles of liquor.

“Shitheads as well,” Sevro said sagely. “Their initiation may be difficult, but it is necessary to become a Howler. You all remember yours? This is a sacred tradition that must be carried out, not corners cut. Not even for the Reaper.”

His little speech got a few cheers, and then they were activating their GhostCloaks and making their way to the showers.

“Ares, they finished their workouts and are in the showers,” a voice crackled through his comm.

“Excellent,” Sevro said. “You all know what to do.”

They snuck in, invisible to the other occupants of the room. The lights were cut, there was a tussle, but then the lights came back on and the three initiates were  on their knees.

_“Greetings, you ugly little bastards,” Sevro growls, removing the voice synthesizer. He stalks forward through the shadows to stand before us. “It has come to my attention that you are abnormally devious, savage, and generally malicious creatures gifted in the arts of murder, mayhem, and chaos…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely, it's happening. I'll be out of commission this weekend, so my plan is to get like, five stories up. Realistic? Maybe not. 
> 
> I also didn't like this prompt, but that's what I have to work it. That's the challenge, right?


	6. Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how I've been like "wow, this word was hard". This word was hard until I had a good idea. Then it was AWESOME. 
> 
> Also, if you're a fan of music, listen to Pluto by Sleeping At Last and reread the first chapter. This group is awesome for writing basically all the time, but I just listened again recently and was like "huh. that works." 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who has been reading! If you really like this, you could review and then I'd be super motivated to published every day. :)

_Flame_

 

The last time Mustang had seen a candle was when her mother was still alive. They were old, obsolete. There were much better sources of light that didn’t threaten to burn down a home. Particular scents could be replicated in a bottle or brought in. Cherry blossoms? Just a few hours away in some greenhouses. Honeysuckle? In their gardens. Jasmine? Hanging outside the nursery windows.

A small flickering flame didn’t provide heat. The only use a candle had was for decoration. But Mustang’s mother had loved decoration. While she was alive, all the Augustus estates possessed a regal beauty. She breathed life and honor into a rigid house. Centuries of tradition, brought together and showcased as if it was not old, was not history. This was House Augustus, rulers of Mars.

Then she died, and all her candles were thrown out. Mustang’s father had allowed her mother a lot of liberties, and when she died they were taken away and then some. No more candles. No more light and life.

If her mother’s life had brought vivacity to House Augustus, her death brought ruin, Mustang thought. Everyone changed after that. While her father had been cruel before, he had been tempered by his wife. That is, until he broke her.

So when a Brown from the Arcos household asked Mustang what she would need to furnish her baby’s room, she included candles on the list. She didn’t think she’d actually get it, but a box of assorted scents waited for her in her quarters at the end of the day.

She sat down gingerly, mindful of her enlarged stomach. Mustang couldn’t say she really minded being pregnant, but it was a nuisance. When she took into account the timing of the whole thing, she was not happy about it.

The father of her child was dead. Her House was more or less dead. What legacy would this child adopt? Mustang would have taken the name Andromedus, become head of that House, if they ever actually had any real claim to it. She would not give her child any Red name. Darrow might have been Red, but he was biologically Gold. And dead. No association with Reds would help her now, especially since the Sons of Ares refused to answer her. It could only hurt her son or daughter.

If Mustang and her child had to stick with the name Augustus, she would carefully cultivate which parts of that House her child was exposed to. Thus, the candles.

She had felt a little greedy, asking not only for candles but specific kinds. Somehow, she got everything she had asked for. Mustang picked a random one from the package and took a whiff. Something sweet and rich. Good for cold nights when she was feeling sorry for herself and wanted a warm hug, but would settle for the sweet smell of something she couldn’t have.

She placed the candle back in the box and rooted around for a purple one. There. Lavender and…something else. She couldn’t place the scent but it was deep without being cloying. Fresh and cleansing. Not invigorating but sleepy.

Lavender was her mother’s first choice to put in the nurseries. Mustang could vaguely remember her coming to say goodnight to her and Adrius after nursemaids had tucked them in their beds. She would brush a kiss on their foreheads, spare a few minutes to talk quietly, then light a candle and leave.

Mustang set the candle aside, then picked up a pale one. Orange blossom. This was familiar too. Oranges grew in some greenhouses, but not naturally on their estates on Mars. When the blossoms were most fragrant, sometimes her mother put them in her hair.

Mustang could remember running through the corridors, trying to avoid bedtime, and ending up in her mother’s chambers. She would sit and watch as this elegant creature got ready for parties. Like any young child, Mustang thought her mother must have been the most beautiful woman in the world. So one night when her mother had a Pink pin an orange blossom behind Mustang’s ear, she had practically glowed with pride. She kept that blossom on her bedside table until it wilted and turned brown.

So many scents, so many memories. Her child wouldn’t know the difference. Would the Arcos women keep his rooms furnished with candles as he got older, even if she never could? Would the child, maybe a little girl, think about what the candles meant? Probably not. There were few sentimental things Mustang allowed herself. The candles would have to be one of the last.

Her due date was fast approaching. In the past few months, she had sometimes wished she was another Color. One who only took five months and some drugs before a baby was born. But no, she was Gold and her child was fully Gold. They had done the tests. Whatever had been done to Darrow had been done well.

Her child would be born healthy, then she would leave. The Yellows and the Arcos women all pressed her to stay, to recover. But the longer she stayed, the harder it would be to rip herself away. She would allow a week. As soon as the baby was delivered, she would call for preparations to start. Then it was war, and she would have to win.

Win or die. Win, or never see her child again. They would be taken care of, she was sure, by the Arcos Household. Probably could blend in with all the grandchildren and great grandchildren. If she failed, for all intents and purposes the child would be Arcos. The only thing to remember his or her true heritage by would be the candles.

That was enough. There was nothing else worth remembering.


	7. Formal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a word every day is basically not working anymore, but I'm still going to finish. This is an amazing exercise in writing and analyzing. If you want to hear more of my thoughts about that, check out thehaemanthus on tumblr. 
> 
> Many thanks again to all who read! Hope you enjoy.

Formal

 

There were ways of doing things. Norms. Accepted practices. Golds functioned at the pinnacle of Society, and they didn’t get there by chance. There was a system, and from a young age Cassius learned that sticking to the system got you rewards.

Speak right to an elder? A pat of the shoulder from father and an approving smile from mother. Do well in lessons? The admiration of peers and promise of something better.

Proper conduct was supposed to result in respect and other positive outcomes. Proper conduct was not supposed to lead to being pissed on by a bunch of gorydamn maniacs.

Slag it. Cassius had been beaten and broken down, and it had been Darrow who rose as leader. Manners and norms. Cassius lost the fight for now, so he would follow Darrow until the other boy messed up. And he would. Darrow was a prime lad, really, but didn’t always play by the rules.

Rules, rules, rules. Cassius would follow them, because even if the rules were slagged on in this game they would still apply in life. He knew that. Darrow au Andromedus from who knows where didn’t. The sheltered Augustus twins, who he had admittedly only ever heard about but _must_ be in the Institute, could not have the same knowledge as him.

Experience and the teachings of his father would be Cassius’s guide, not some gory game. Certainly not one controlled by Augustus. Hell, this game had probably been rigged against him. He had been doing things right, slag it. He got rid of Darrow, put a blade through his gut. He had avenged Julian, upheld family honor. But House Mars still crumbled, and in the end, it was the Reaper who descended from the sky like a god.

Roque comes into the war room, face unreadable. “We took down the House Mars flag. Someone replaced it with the image of his scythe.”

Cassius grunts in reply, glaring at the wood of the table.

“They have armor, pulseFists, gorydamn razors. It’s over, Cassius. He won. He won it all.” Then Roque leaves.

It’s over.

Darrow didn’t play by the rules and he won. Razors? Must have cheated. His rise to power was through the backs of Shamed. He should be shamed too. But Cassius had learned a little. If enough Drafters like his angle, he’ll not only win. He might be the most desirable student in a century.

That title was never supposed to go to a monster like Darrow au Andromedus. He didn’t play by the right rules, and he still won. He spit on the face of social norms and came out on top. Damn him.

Cassius heard heavy steps come to the room. The Reaper, there to deliver the final blow. Break the rules again and kill a house member, a man he once called brother. Complete a set, get both Bellona brothers.

But no, that was not what happened. The first words that came out of his mouth were “I’m sorry for Julian.”

Damn him. If he could not finish off his opponent, Cassius would have to make him. Maybe not now. No, not now. The Reaper was a god in his armor and fierce appearance. Cassius was a starved, flea-bitten child. He would have to do better. He would have to rise, and then finish this off.

To do so would require a formal declaration. Darrow was not expecting the blood on spat onto his face, nor the words that followed. Cassius didn’t regret the formal declaration.

_“This is a blood feud. If ever we meet again, you are mine or I am yours. If ever again we draw breath in the same room, one breath shall cease. Hear me now, you wretched worm. We are devils to one another till one rots in hell.”_

 


	8. Companion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'm alive and continuing this it's just a) I forgot the holidays and familial obligations existed and b) I have tendonitis.
> 
> So. 
> 
> I would like to write about a variety of characters, so if there's something you want to see, LET ME KNOW. You have no idea how happy that would make me.

_Companion_

 

“Virginia! Wait!” Pax was used to being good at most things he tried. He was bigger and stronger than most other children he sparred with. He was never behind in his lessons. He pleased his father, made his mother laugh. The only area in which he faltered was in getting Daxo to play with him, but Mother said that Daxo was older and just stubborn.

Pax was used to being good, if not great. That all went away when Virginia au Augustus came to stay. She had been quiet at first. Spoke only when spoken to, and always with the right words in an even tone. Her hair and clothes were always perfectly straight. Hands crossed in her lap or by her side.

Her only fault might have been that her eyes were always cast downwards. All. The. Time. It drove Pax crazy. He had heckled her until Father gave him a talking to.

So instead of poking and prodding at the girl to join in on the fun that the Telemanus estate had to offer, Pax started to bring fun to her. He cajoled her outside (“because we need a referee, Virginia, a neutral party”) to watch him and his cousins play. He put on HC shows he thought she might enjoy. Then she took her to the stables. It was over after that.

“Keep up!” The girl screeched back at him, increasing the distance between them.

It wasn’t fair. Virginia got a sleek mare after she proved her competence to father. Pax had to settle for a sturdy pony which could hold his weight but wasn’t very fast at all. So, while Virginia streaked across green hills, Pax and his stead trotted behind.

But Virginia smiled when they were out. She let her voice become loud. Pax was no good at racing, so Virginia quickly got tired of it. Instead they would go to the far edges of the estate, play at being the Iron Gold conquerors or inhabiting the roles their parents did. They built their own little fort next to a brook, although Pax did most of the work while Virginia supervised.

Outside, far away from the adults, Virginia screamed and played and acted like the child Pax always thought she was. She didn’t talk about herself much. That was okay. Pax never needed to know. He was content to fill in simple position of loyal friend in Virginia au Augustus’s life.

It was the position he occupied even as they grew up and apart. He enjoyed being in the company of Obsidians, she with her books and philosophies. Eventually, Nero moved his son and daughter to other locations. They didn’t keep up correspondence, but would pick up right where they left off when they saw each other in person.

When Pax recognized her at the Institute, years later, he knew what would happen. The goal was to become Primus, and Pax would try of course. But he wasn’t sorted into Minerva by mistake.

Sometimes the best wisdom is knowing where you fall short. Pax was the strongest warrior in House Minerva, probably of the whole Institute. But he was no leader.

He would follow Virginia, help her rise and win. There was its own kind of honor in that action.


	9. Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, I actually do hate myself.

_Move_

 

It was cold. Cold and wet and generally uncomfortable. Darrow was used to the heat, to the prickling of skin that turned to burning, even as sweat drenched your skin. He had been to Hell and back numerous times, but it was only recently that he learned the ninth circle of Hell was cold. The destination to be frozen and alone. 

Except, he wasn’t alone. And it wasn’t that unbearable with a roaring fire and stinking pelt swung around his shoulders. Darrow stared into the glowing orange embers of the fire. Every once and a while a bug would surrender itself to heat and warmth and get charred, a burst of bright yellow. The fire was mesmerizing, lulling his already fatigued brain. But he couldn’t sleep yet. Most of his army was still up.

“ _Move_ ,” Mustang’s voice startled Darrow out of his trance. He wordlessly complied when she shoved him over on the log he was perched on.

“You’re soaking wet,” Darrow noted.

The sneer that she sent his way made Darrow scoot back a little more. “No shit, _Reaper_.” They’d been trekking through snow, and Mustang got the worst of it. She was resilient, but even her strong willpower would have to bend to things like hypothermia. Mustang knew that too, and swung her own pelt off. “Sevro!”

Sevro’s head popped up from underneath a pile of wolf pelt. “You called?”

“How the hell did you hand the pelts over the fire to dry?” Mustang shivered as she braided her hair, keeping it out of her face. Her clothes were durable, but soaked. They were no match for the vicious cold that had descended.

Sevro gave her a once over, then nodded to himself. “What do I get in return?”

“Not having my standard up your _ass_ , you-“

“Okay!” Sevro leapt up, dusting snow off. “Give me a few minutes.” He lumbered off into the forest, not before stopping by Darrow and muttering, “you need to keep the reigns on that one, Reap,” and narrowly avoiding a swipe to his knees.

Darrow went back to enjoying the warmth of the fire, getting lost in thought once again. His musing was cut short by the violent shivering next to him. “Come here,”

“You sure?” Mustang asked. “I smell.”

“And I’m sure I resemble a bouquet,” Darrow held up one arm. “Come here.” Mustang scooted closer to him so they were pressed up against each other. Her wet clothes felt frozen, and the cold seeped into Darrow’s skin even as his heat transferred to her. “What are you going to do about the wet clothes?”

“Figure something out,” she said. “First I want my pelt back.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the trick is writing something no matter how shitty it is and posting it because this is a writing exercise and not a gorydamn novella
> 
> Also I can't stress eat when I loose a two hundred word scene of an AU even though they were some pretty great words.
> 
> Also I need to wear my brace so I can, you know, not have tendonitis.


End file.
